


Ebony and Ivory

by Sani86



Series: Amabika amahle - Good Omens in South Africa [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Albinism, Alternate Universe - Human, Apartheid era, Bigotry & Prejudice, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Internalized Homophobia, It's really very sweet I promise, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, South Africa, not much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:15:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: South Africa, 1971.Harry is alone, but it's better that way. Safer. No-one would want him around anyway, if they knew the truth of who he was (as if the way he looked wasn't bad enough). So he keeps to himself.Until a gorgeous, carefree idiot of a man decides they're going to be friends, come what may, and Harry finds himself powerless to resist.---A good omens human AU. See author's notes for more details.
Relationships: Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Series: Amabika amahle - Good Omens in South Africa [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022163
Comments: 88
Kudos: 24
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Orlando police station

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is tangential to Weeping, my GOmens South African AU. I initially inserted these two as minor characters, fell in love with them, and now I miss them. I suppose you could read it as a standalone Hastur/Ligur human AU fic, although you’d be missing a bit of context. Important things to know: this takes place in South Africa in the 70’s onwards, so during Apartheid when black people were considered less than nothing. Homosexual relationships were illegal, and m/m sex was punishable by 7 years in prison. Both our boys are black, but Harry has albinism (which comes with its own truckload of prejudice).  
> If you read Weeping, you’ll know I write with a loooot of footnotes when I write about SA. Forgive me. I love my country (despite its many flaws) and I have a burning desire to tell everyone about it. I also can’t resist writing the way we speak, so that means a bit of slang and non-english words slip in; all explained in footnotes, but if something doesn’t make sense please give me a shout.  
> Oh and a few important bits of slang: fok = fuck (the expletive, not the verb), ja = yes, blerrie = bloody, mama = mother.

_24 April, 1971_

Harry shivered and pulled his coat tighter around him. The cells at Orlando[1] Police station were not exactly built for comfort, and the chill from the bare concrete floor felt like it was seeping into his very bones. Maybe sitting on it was not the best idea in the autumn chill, but he’d been in here over 24 hours now and his legs were in desperate need of a rest. It was a holding cell, no bed or chairs (unless you wanted to sit on the toilet, which… just, no) so the floor was his only option. Every so often a police officer would walk past, bang on the bars a bit. A few other men had been tossed in with them over the last couple of hours, mostly drunks coming back from the Derby[2] who’d been caught brawling in the streets. Fucking idiots, the lot of them.

Harry eyed the latest newcomer in the cell surreptitiously. To be fair, everyone was staring at the man - he was making it difficult not to, with his drunken shenanigans - but he doubted if anyone else was looking in quite the same way he was. 

To put it bluntly, the man was gorgeous. Young (was he even old enough to be buying alcohol?), skin like polished ebony, plump lips that just begged to be bitten…

Unfortunately, he was also very drunk, and seemed to have zero sense of self-preservation. If he had any brains, he would turn that Kaizer Chiefs jersey inside out to hide the insignia, wipe off his face paint, and try to be inconspicuous. Instead, the idiot was currently singing a very off-key rendition of a Chiefs fan-song at the top of his lungs. In Orlando police station. On the night of the Derby. 

Harry sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, trying to ignore the way tensions in the cell were rising. It was gonna be a looong night. 

He was proven right half an hour later when the shouting started. Pretty Boy was facing off with three of the other cellmates, in a heated argument that seemed to have devolved from soccer to insults about each other’s mothers. 

Harry knew this scenario only too well - hell knows, he’d been in it often enough. He could tell when shit was about to hit the fan, and this one looked like an elephant turd. The way the other men were squaring off suggested that a punch was about to be thrown. 

It would be a shame if that pretty face had its nose broken or its teeth knocked out. An act of artistic desecration, really. 

Harry got to his feet with a sigh, berating himself for getting involved even as he was doing it.

“Look, guys,” he said, inserting himself between pretty boy and the others. “Can’t we all just chill?”

“Fokkof, inkawu[3],” the apparent leader said. “This is none of your business. That little shit is asking for it.”

Harry side-eyed the little shit in question, who was staring at him with a _what the fuck?_ sort of expression. He wouldn’t call the man little - he was shorter than Harry, but had a stocky build that suggested a lot of solid muscle. He was, however, far too drunk to defend himself if these thugs decided to get physical.

“You gonna back off?” Pretty Boy just raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“There you have it,” Harry said, turning back to the others.

“Fuck that,” the man said, and tried to push Harry out of the way.

That had been a mistake. Harry had long ago learned to defend himself - you didn’t have much of a choice, if you were an albino growing up in the townships. You learned to fight, or the bullies would have you for lunch.

On instinct, one arm came around to slap the man’s arm away, and the other one came around in a right hook that had the bully staggering back a few steps. The man brought a hand up to his nose, wincing when he drew it away and saw the blood on his fingers.

“Is jy fokken mal?” he said incredulously, switching over to Afrikaans out of sheer shock. _Are you fucking crazy?_

“Maybe. You wanna try that again?”

For a moment it looked as if he would, but then he sagged and slunk off to the other end of the cell, muttering under his breath.

“And you,” Harry said, turning to the other man. “You keep your blerrie stupid mouth shut, you hear? I’m not saving your arse again.”

Pretty Boy just gave him a dazed nod, and Harry retreated to his corner.

_Why the hell did I do that?_ he wondered as the adrenaline wore off. The last thing he needed was a charge of assault against his name. Stupid, stupid, stupid, and all because of a pretty face that caught his eye. Pathetic.

He became aware of a shuffling sound next to him, and looked up to see Pretty Boy himself sitting down against the wall next to him.

“Um. Hi,” the man started. Harry just nodded.

“I just wanted to, you know, thank you for that. Woulda gotten moered[4] into the next life if you didn’t step in.” The man was looking at him with an expression that could best be described as awestruck admiration. Great. The things Harry could read into a look like that… it didn’t bear thinking about.

“‘S fine,” Harry grunted.

“That was quite something, my man,” he went on, clearly not put off by Harry’s reticent manner. “Never seen anyone throw a punch like that. It was just like, pshew, katang!” He was gesturing wildly, making sounds reminiscent of a children’s cartoon.

“Do you ever shut up?” Harry grumbled.

“Not often, no,” the man replied easily. He grinned at Harry as if they were sharing a secret.

“Well, start now,” Harry advised, and closed his eyes, drawing his hat down over his face. He was being rude, he knew, but it was intentional. He didn’t need this man hanging around him. Didn’t need to keep looking at him, trying to see the exact colour of his eyes when they caught the light, wondering what his hands felt like, who kissed him goodnight. Fok, no, that was the last thing he needed.

Pretty Boy took the hint and shut up.

Harry, to his surprise, kind of missed his voice.

The rest of the night passed in relative peace, and when the morning shift came on they finally finished processing Harry’s paperwork and let him go. Pretty boy smiled and waved at him as he left; Harry just nodded. No point in getting chummy. No point at all.

For a moment, just one moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if they lived in a different world. One where he could slip the other man his address, maybe invite him out for a drink, proposition him for a kiss or, if things went really well, something more. He was pretty sure the man would be at least a little bit interested; Harry was good at picking out the subtle signs of his kind, and Pretty Boy wasn’t exactly subtle.

But he shook his head. No way. For men like him, love (or even a bit of fun) just wasn’t on the cards. Wasn’t worth the risk[5].

He did whisper to the constable in charge of the cells that some of the men had been trying to start a fight last night, and they should probably keep an eye on things. Just… extending his protection services, he told himself. Just in case those thugs decided to try for a rematch.

He made his way home from the police station lost in thought. Stopped by his mom’s house first to let her and Mbali know he was free and safe. Neither of them had been at the ANC rally where he was arrested, but between his mother and his sister they picked up every bit of gossip in Dube City[6], so they’d surely have heard about his two nights spent in the cells. 

As expected, his mother gave him an ear-bashing for making her worry. The worst part was that he knew her fears weren’t entirely unfounded; men went missing or died suspiciously in police custody far too often[7]. It was a dangerous game he was playing; so far he’d won, but who knew when his luck would run out?

And yet. How could he just sit back and accept the status quo? There was his little sister, growing up into a clever and beautiful girl, and the best she could hope for in life was to become someone’s housekeeper or childminder? It wasn’t right. 

“Harry? Are you listening to me, my boy?” 

Harry forced his thoughts back to the present. His mother was standing with her hands on her hips, her expression part annoyance, part concern. 

“Sorry, mama. Just tired. Think I should head home and get some rest.”

“Maybe if you didn’t get yourself arrested, you’d have gotten a decent night’s sleep,” she chided him gently. 

“I know, mama, I know,” he said, and sighed. “I wish it were that simple.”

“I know, my boy,” she said, pulling him into a hug. She reminded him of a mother hen gathering her chicks under her wings whenever she did that, even though this particular chick towered over her head and shoulders. He wondered if he'd ever reach an age where his mama’s hugs didn’t make him feel better. He hoped not. 

He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, mama. Stay well.”

“Hamba kahle[8], my boy. Be safe.” 

### Footnotes

1 Orlando is a suburb of Soweto, the large township south of Joburg. In the Apartheid era, non-whites were only allowed to reside in demarcated areas such as the townships. These areas were poorly serviced and overcrowded, and generally not nearly as nice as the places the whites got.[return to text]

2 The Derby refers to the Soweto Derby, the name given to games between Soweto’s two main soccer teams, the Orlando Pirates and the Kaizer Chiefs. The Pirates were an old team (formed in the 30’s, I think) and the Chiefs were founded in 1970 by an ex-pirates player, Kaizer Motaung. There was an immediate bitter rivalry between the two teams. Up to the mid-1980’s, the Derby was a properly dangerous event, with fans getting violent more often than not. [The game that this takes place after was the first time the two teams met in a Professional Soccer League match. It ended with a 4-3 win for the chiefs, after coming back from 0-3 at halftime. Pirates fans were quite sore at the loss.][return to text]

3 Inkawu = an insulting term for a person with albinism, meaning ‘white baboon.’ Fokkof means fuck off, in case that wasn't clear.[return to text]

4 moered = beaten up. Can be used interchangeably with bliksemed or donnered. There, now you know some lovely South African terms for assault.[return to text]

5 It really was a risk. A prison-sentence, enforced-conversion-therapy sort of risk.[return to text]

6 Dube City = another one of Soweto’s suburbs (one of the nicer ones, although that’s a very relative term). Soweto is a big place (currently the 4th largest city in SA, after Cape Town, Durban and Joburg).[return to text]

7 Feel free to read up on deaths in police custody during the Apartheid era. Start with the story of Steve Biko. It’s chilling stuff (especially when you realise this shit is still happening in the supposedly free democratic world today…)[return to text]

8 Hamba kahle = lit. walk well, in Zulu; the sentiment being “travel safely”. It is the most common way to greet someone who is leaving. The person who is staying would be greeted with “sala kahle,” which means “stay well”.[return to text]


	2. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunga shows up again unexpectedly. It's the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Harry did exactly what he’d told his mother: he went home, fell into bed, and didn’t stir until his alarm went off at 4 the next morning. A quick wash, a breakfast of tea and bread, and he made his way to work. They’d finished pouring foundations at their current building site last week, so today they could start building the walls. Bricklaying was hard work, but Harry enjoyed it, and he felt proud when by the end of the day most of the walls were built up to waist height. 

Another bonus of bricklaying was that he had to pay attention to what he was doing: slap on enough mortar but not too much, align each brick precisely with those below and next to it, scrape off the extra mortar to leave a perfect, tidy little groove. Repeat, and repeat, and repeat again. The focus on his work allowed a blessed absence of thought. 

He didn’t think of Pretty Boy once. 

Okay, that was a lie. The man popped into his mind at the most ridiculous times. But he didn’t dwell on those thoughts. So he counted that as a victory. 

It was growing dark when he finally got back to Dube. He glanced ahead of him down the street, and was surprised to see someone waiting in front of his house, leaning against the little gate to the yard as if they had every right to be there. 

He felt his blood start to boil. Who did this person think they were, loitering in front of his home? He sped up, preparing to give this stranger a piece of his mind and a smack or two if needed. 

But as he drew near, the person’s face came into focus, and he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.  _ What was he doing here? _

It was none other than the man who’d been intruding on his every waking thought for the last 24 hours. As if he’d somehow been summoned there by the sheer force of Harry’s imagination. 

Maybe he’d been in the sun too long, and he was seeing things. 

But then Pretty Boy spotted him, and his face broke into a smile so genuine, so beautiful, that Harry knew there was no way it wasn’t real. His imagination wasn't that good. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked as he stepped up to the gate. 

“Well, hello to you too,” the man answered with a cocky grin. “I never got a chance to thank you properly, yesterday.”

“How the hell did you know where to find me?” Harry demanded. 

“Slipped the desk cop a twenty to tell me which area you live in,” he admitted easily, as if trying to bribe the wrong police officer wouldn’t just land him right back in the cells. “From there it was just a matter of asking around. Lucky for me you’re so memorable, hey?”

“That’s a little creepy,” Harry remarked. 

The man shrugged. “Wanted to thank you properly.”

“Okay. Fine. Consider me properly thanked.” Harry hoped the man would just take the hint and buzz off. He didn’t need this complication in his life right now. 

“I thought maybe I could buy you a drink?” the man said hopefully. 

“I don’t drink,” Harry answered curtly, “and you drink far too much. I’m not saving your drunk ass again.”

The other man laughed at this, a sound of such pure mirth that Harry couldn’t stop a smile from creeping onto his own face. 

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Can I at least know your name, then?”

“Harry.”

“Lunga.” 

Harry shook the proffered hand. The man - Lunga - had broad, strong hands, the skin work-roughened, and yet there was something gentle in the way he took Harry’s hand in both his own. They lingered on Harry’s for perhaps just a fraction too long as they shared a smile. 

Damn that smile. It would be his undoing. 

For the second time in two days he found himself doing something stupid. 

“You wanna come in for tea?” he asked. 

Lunga’s smile stretched even wider. “Tell you what, since you turned down my offer of a drink, how about I buy you dinner?”

“Sure,” Harry shrugged. The day he turned down a free meal they could bury him. “There’s a spaza a couple of blocks that way that sells decent pap[9] and gravy. I’m gonna go clean up.” And with that he pushed through the gate and made his way up to the house. 

He’d half expected Lunga not to return, but sure enough, half an hour later the man was back, food and a litre of Coke in hand. 

Harry waved him inside, gestured to the kitchen table as he retrieved cutlery and a couple of glasses. 

“So. Tell me about yourself. Since you now know where I live and all. You better not be a tsotsi[10] or something.”

Lunga chuckled again. He laughed and smiled so easily, Harry noticed, so unlike himself. He hadn’t laughed much in a long time. 

“I’m perfectly harmless, I promise. Besides, I’ve seen you fight. I’m no genius, but I’m definitely not stupid enough to get in the way of that punch.”

Harry couldn’t help a smile at that. “You better not give me a reason to hit you.”

“Why’d you do that, anyway?” Lunga asked, suddenly curious. “I mean, I’m nothing to you. Stupid, drunk stranger who probably deserved to get his ass kicked. Why’d you stand up for me?”

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted. 

“Well. I’m grateful regardless.” Lunga gave him one last smile and tucked into his food. Harry did the same. The less talking, the better.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Mbali.

“Buti[11], mama wants to know wh- oh,” she interrupted herself as she noticed the other man in the kitchen. “Who’re you?”

“This is Lunga, he’s a… friend.” Harry hesitated to use such a familiar term for this stranger, but what else could he call him? ‘Random dude I met in the cells’ seemed a bit insulting.

“Since when do you have friends?” she countered.

“Since now. Lunga, this is my annoying little sister Mbali.”

“Hi!” He gave Mbali a friendly wave, which she returned.

“Anyway,” Mbali went on, “Mama sent me to come check you were okay. She wanted to know why you never came around after work, but I get it now. Come visit tomorrow, ne?”

“Sure,” Harry said, and waved his sister goodbye.

“Your mom lives nearby?” Lunga asked, once Mbali was gone.

“Just a few blocks away,” he answered. “She and my sister.”

“Lucky.” Lunga’s eyes got a faraway look. “My family’s all back in Zululand[12].”

“So what are you doing all the way up here?”

Lunga shrugged. “Work, what else? Came looking for a job on the mines, but that didn’t work out. Hated being underground more than you can imagine. So now I work at a quarry up Krugersdorp way.”

“Hmm. And you have no family up here?”

“Nah, not that I know of. How about you? What do you do?”

“Building. Bricklaying, tiling, that sort of thing.”

“Useful.”

“I’d say so. Me and my uncle built most of this place.”

Lunga cast a curious glance around what he could see of the house, which wasn’t much: two doors opened out from the kitchen that they were sitting in, one to the living room and the other to a hallway. Had he walked over, He would have seen that the hallway led to two bedrooms (one of which was more of a storage area at the moment) and, luxury of luxuries, a proper indoor bathroom with a shower and flushing toilet. The council-built houses didn’t have those. Harry was inordinately proud of his little house. 

“That’s pretty damn impressive, actually,” he finally said. “And your uncle? Does he also live here?” 

“No, he moved back home when my aunt passed on some few years ago. It’s just me now.” Why was he telling Lunga all this? Not like the man had asked, not like he had any reason to know.

“Huh. All alone? No wife? Girlfriend? Family that needs a place to crash?”

Harry didn’t snort with laughter at the idea of having a wife or girlfriend, but only because he’d had years of practice. He opted to answer the safer half of the question. “It’s just me and mama and Mbali, and mama refuses to leave her home. So lucky me, I get to have the place to myself.”

“Not even a roommate?” Lunga asked. “Sounds a little lonely.” 

Harry just shrugged, because what could he say to that? Lunga had hit the nail on the head. It was lonely - desperately, achingly lonely - but it had always been that way and always would be. Harry had long accepted that as his fate and learned to live with it. It was safer that way.

“How ‘bout you?” he asked, deflecting the attention away from himself. “Where do you stay?”

“Wherever I can,” Lunga said. “At the moment, renting a room from an antie in Pimville[13]. Before that it was a shack in Shantytown[14], so I’d consider that an upgrade.” He smiled his easy smile, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. 

“No girlfriend?” He threw Lunga’s question back at him, although he rather suspected he knew the answer already. 

“Nah, not really my thing. Young and free, that’s my style.”

Oh, that was another thing he’d been wondering. “How old are you, anyway? You look barely legal.”

Lunga gave him a look of mock offense. “Hey, I’m nineteen, grandpa!” 

“Grandpa your arse, I’m only two years older than you!” Harry retorted. 

“Wouldn’t’ve guessed,” Lunga said. “You seem all… wise and stuff.”

“Ja, well. Being what I am, and having a baby sister to protect… Makes a guy grow up quickly, that.”

Harry turned his attention back to his food, not keen to carry on down that conversational avenue. Thank the stars, Lunga seemed to take the hint, and started chattering happily about the weekend’s soccer game. It was lost on Harry, who didn’t know a goal from a try, but he enjoyed watching the man’s eyes sparkle as he talked about his favourite team.

God, those eyes. They looked like those pretty tiger eye[15] gemstones, Harry decided; mostly a beautiful chocolate brown, but every so often they flashed a deep golden colour, sometimes almost red if the light caught them just the right way. Fucking mesmerising. Harry had to force himself to look away, lest he be caught staring and things get... awkward.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, easily, with Lunga talking about this, that and everything under the sun, and Harry trying desperately to remember why he should  _ not _ get attached to this young man.

It was difficult, and getting more so with every passing minute. Lunga was every bit as charming as he was pretty, and Harry knew that it would be oh so very easy to fall in love with him. Easy, yes, but also the stupidest thing he could possibly do. 

By the time Lunga got up to leave, it was well after dark.

“I’ll see you again sometime, yeah?” Lunga said, as they were saying goodbye at the gate.

“Why?” Harry retorted. “You’ve done your… thanking thing now, haven’t you?”

“Ja, but I kinda enjoyed hanging out with you,” Lunga said with a smile. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Oh, fuck, no; this was a disaster. Harry wanted nothing more than to see Lunga again; hell, he didn't want him to leave now; but he knew in his very bones that it wouldn’t end well for either of them.

“Not so sure that’s a good idea,” he grunted.

“Oh, come on,” Lunga said jovially. “You could use a friend, if your sister’s reaction is anything to go by, and so could I.”

“You could use a bodyguard,” Harry teased.

“That too,” Lunga laughed. “You’d be excellent as either, I suspect.”

Harry just rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible,” he said, and couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto his face.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Lunga retorted. 

“Well. Bye then. Hamba kahle.”

“Sala kahle, my new friend,” Lunga said, shaking his hand. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure of it.”

And with that he turned and ambled off down the street. Harry very determinedly did not stand and watch him walk away; he went inside and locked the door, and tried very hard to stay rational. He could not let this go any further than it already had.

His subconscious didn’t get the memo. He lay awake late, late into the night, remembering and trying not to remember how strangely  _ right  _ it had felt to have a meal with this man, sharing their space and their thoughts as if they were the best of friends rather than virtual strangers. And when sleep finally came, his dreams were haunted by warm red-amber eyes and a brilliant white smile in an ebony face. He jolted awake in the morning with the memory of Lunga’s laugh ringing in his ears, his body humming with the imagined touch of gentle, work-roughened hands.

Oh, he was so very fucked.

\---

###  Footnotes

9 How do I explain pap to someone who doesn’t know it? It’s made of cooked mielie meal (ground corn/maize, not as fine as flour but not as coarse as polenta; I think perhaps the closest thing is cornmeal grits?) The texture varies from soft and runny, to stiff, to dry and crumbly, depending on the ratio of mielie meal to water. Soft porridge (mdogo) is usually eaten with sugar for breakfast; stiff porridge (pap) is eaten with gravy or other savoury relishes for lunch/supper. It’s a staple food for poor South Africans, because it’s cheap and readily available. We also just love it.[return to text]

10 Tsotsi = gangster or criminal.[return to text]

11 Buti = brother, but it’s also a term of address used for boys and young men in general.[return to text]

12 Zululand was one of the black homelands in what is today known as KwaZulu Natal. [return to text]

13 Pimville is yet another area within Soweto.[return to text]

14 Shantytown is an informal settlement; basically, an open piece of land where anyone who doesn’t have a better option erects a shack out of whatever scrap materials they can get their hands on. Soweto’s Shantytown has quite an interesting history; like many things in South Africa, it started as an act of political protest, when blacks who were refused council housing started squatting on open municipal land. By this time the Shantytown area was formally known as Jabavu and Moroka, as it still is today. Sadly, even today, a lot of South Africans live in shanty towns. [return to text]

15 Are tiger’s eyes called by that name in the rest of the world? I think they’re technically banded agates. Incredibly beautiful, they come in both gold and red varieties.[return to text]


	3. Soccer and shebeens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Lu start spending more time together... and then a lot more

Harry thought that maybe that would be it, that he’d be rid of Lunga. He knew he wasn’t the friendliest person even when he was trying to be, and the only thing he’d been trying with the younger man was to discourage him from coming back. 

Lunga, on the other hand, was all charm and easy smiles, the kind of personality that would surely draw friends to him in droves. He certainly didn’t need an old grouch like Harry cramping his style. 

He prayed that Lunga would do the kind thing and stay away. Except when he thought with anything other than the fearful, insecure part of his brain. Then he prayed to every god and demon that he didn’t believe in that Lunga would come back, and never leave.

It turned out that Lunga was not so easily put off; apparently he’d decided that they were gonna be friends, and that was that. He showed up on Saturday afternoon, casual as anything, begging Harry to go to a soccer game with him.

“C’mon, we’re playing the Downs[16], we’re gonna slaughter them. It’ll be great!”

“Oh, no,” Harry said. “I’m not falling for that one. Last time you went to a soccer game, you got yourself arrested.”

“See, that’s why I need you to come with. Keep me out of trouble.” Lunga flashed him a smile, turning on the charm. Oh Lord, had he but known what that smile did to Harry’s insides. He couldn’t refuse him a damn thing when he smiled like that. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

“Fine,” Harry grumbled. “But no booze.”

“Deal.” Lunga seemed inordinately proud of himself.

Since they had more time than money, they decided to walk to Orlando stadium rather than taking a taxi. It was only about an hour’s walk, and it was a nice day; the first chill of autumn was setting in, which was a blessing for Harry in his ever-present long sleeves and wide-brimmed hat. They were uncomfortable in the African sun, but still preferable to the sunburn he’d suffer otherwise.

Lunga, of course, was chattering happily as they walked. Harry allowed himself to relax and enjoy it, even joining in the conversation when he had something to add. He caught himself smiling more than he had in months, even laughing at some of Lunga’s silly jokes. It was easy, with him.

To Harry’s immense surprise, he actually enjoyed the soccer game. He didn’t really understand the rules - especially the one about offside, that made no sense at all - but he knew that the ball was supposed to go in the net, and that allowed him to cheer or groan along with Lunga and the rest of the yellow-clad Chiefs fans.

He was feeling strangely relaxed as they made their way home, walking through the moonlit streets of Soweto with his friend. He paused at that thought - yes, he was; Lunga was his friend. What a strange concept. It had been a long time since he’d had someone to call a friend, Mbali hadn’t been wrong about that. The guys he worked with certainly didn’t count, and even the comrades from his ANCYL[17] branch weren’t what he’d call friends. His social circle outside of formally organised events consisted of exactly two people: his mother and sister.

And now there was a third person, a beautiful, charming, smiling man who’d decided to be his friend, come hell or high water. Harry felt suddenly, strangely grateful for Lunga’s stubborn persistence.

“This was actually fun,” he admitted to Lunga as they said goodbye where the road split to Dube and Pimville. “Thanks for taking me with.”

“Careful there,” Lunga chuckled at him. “I might just drag you along to every game.”

“That might be overkill,” Harry said with a smile. “But I could survive the occasional match.”

“And what about non-game related visits?” Lunga asked with a cheeky grin. “Think you could tolerate my company?”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Harry answered, instead of the _yes, dear god, yes_ that his heart was shouting.

Lunga laughed at that, and the sound made warmth bloom in Harry’s chest.

“I’ll see you around, Harry,” Lunga said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Walk safe.”

“You too.”

\--- 

It quickly became a pattern. At least once every weekend, Lunga would show up with some plan for how they could spend a day or an afternoon. Sometimes they went out - to soccer games, or the Joburg Zoo, or whatever took their fancy on a given day - and some days they just hung out at home, listening to the radio or playing cards or just talking nonsense for hours on end.

One time, Lunga even managed to persuade Harry to go out to a shebeen[18].

“Just one drink, c’mon,” he’d wheedled. “I had a kak week and I need a beer. You can have a Coke, since you don’t drink, and I give you permission to drag me home at any time.”

Harry hadn’t been entirely truthful in saying he didn’t drink - true, it had been a long time since he’d had any alcohol, but that was more a matter of circumstance than any conscientious objection.

So he ended up having a beer with Lunga, and then another. He enjoyed the way it made him feel slightly looser, the way he felt a bit less awkward smiling at his mesmerising friend or laughing along to his jokes. He wasn’t a small man, but his body was completely unused to alcohol, so by the third drink he was feeling pleasantly buzzed.

He might have gotten tipsy enough to do something truly stupid if someone hadn’t ducked in the front door yelling “ _Bo 4!_ [19] Cops two blocks away!”

The music was shut off abruptly, curtains were closed and the patrons were unceremoniously shoved out the back door and told to scram.

“Run?” Harry suggested when the flashing blue lights came into view.

Lunga laughed, grabbed hold of his hand, and set off in the direction of Harry’s house.

Luckily it wasn’t far. They fell through the front door, laughing at the sheer absurdity of running from the police in the middle of the night.

“That,” Harry said, gasping for breath, “is why we don’t go to shebeens.”

“The good news is,” Lunga said with a smile, “we don’t have to anymore.” with a flourish he produced a nearly-full bottle of something or other from under his jacket, presumably snatched on their way out.

“Oh, you bastard,” Harry laughed. “Just can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”

“Nope,” Lunga’s grin was threatening to split his face in half. “Go on, get the glasses.”

That night, Harry got properly drunk for the first time in years.

The next morning, he sorely regretted it.

“Fuuuuuuck, I’m never listening to you again,” he said to Lunga, who’d slept on the couch the previous night, far too drunk to walk home and arrive there in one piece.

Lunga, being more used to alcohol (and having had the foresight to down a few mugs of water before going to sleep), was chirpy as always, if looking a little rough around the edges. It was, frankly, annoying. But he disappeared for a while and returned bearing a half-dozen eggs, a loaf of white bread, and a bottle of Creme Soda[20] (-“groen ambulans,” he explained, “best hangover cure known to man”-) and made them breakfast, so Harry could almost forgive him.

Almost.

Because all of it - hanging out and getting drunk and having breakfast together… it was just a bit much for Harry’s poor heart to bear. He wanted it, all of it, every day. Having these little teases, bits and pieces of a dream he could never truly have, was driving him crazy.

And yet, like an addict seeking the next fix even as he knew it was killing him, he kept coming back for more. It was stupid, even stupider than his unnecessarily expensive and definitely not health-promoting smoking habit, but like the cigarettes, he just couldn’t bear to give it up.

\---

Weeks stretched into months, and the chill of winter set in. For all South Africa’s reputation as a sunshine country, winter nights on the highveld could get bitterly cold. The only thing to do on such nights was to cook up a big pot of soup, turn on a heater and crawl into bed with every blanket in the house.

It was on one such a July evening that there was an unexpected knock at Harry’s door. He grumbled as he crawled out of his nice warm nest - honestly, who was out and about after dark in the middle of winter? It better not be Mbali, he’d skin her alive walking around in the cold like that.

It wasn’t Mbali. 

It was Lunga, looking uncharacteristically lost and unhappy.

“Lu? What’s up?” he asked as he opened the door and beckoned his friend inside. Only then did he notice the suitcase.

“Jeez, I’m sorry to drop in like this,” Lunga said, teeth chattering against the cold. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Sit, warm up,” Harry commanded, passing Lunga a blanket and pushing him toward the couch. “I’ll make tea.” Lunga obeyed wordlessly.

“Okay, spill,” Harry said when they were settled on his one lone couch, steaming mugs of rooibos tea in hand. “What brings you here in the middle of the night?”

“Middle of the night? It’s barely eight, old man,” Lunga teased, in an attempt to lighten the mood. It didn’t work; Harry just glared at him.

Lunga sighed into his mug. “The antie I was staying with kicked me out.”

“What? Why?” Harry was immediately indignant on behalf of his friend. What sort of heartless person would put someone on the streets like that, and in the middle of the coldest month of the year?

“She heard some… rumours. About me.” Lunga explained dejectedly. “Decided she didn’t want me around, corrupting her kids, or so she said. Didn’t even give me a chance to explain myself.”

“Fok, Lu, that’s… I’m sorry.” Harry’s mind was working overtime. “You know - I hope you know - that my door’s open to you. But I have to ask, what rumours? Were they true? I mean, if you’re involved in illegal shit…” Not that he could judge, what with his own illegal political activities. But if Lunga was involved with something dangerous - drugs, maybe, or violent crime - well, he couldn’t allow that sort of thing in his home. He had a little sister to protect.

“No, no, nothing like that…” Lunga sighed. “It’s… worse, maybe? I don’t know.”

“Lu, if you wanna stay, you’re gonna have to tell me.”

Lunga stared intently at his tea, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “You know how, back when we met, I told you I didn’t have a girlfriend? Well, that’s sort of it, really. I… she found out that… well, I wouldn’t want a girlfriend. Ever.”

Harry felt relief wash through him. The old bitch had just found out that Lunga was gay, that was all. Nothing he hadn’t suspected already.

“So, what, you’re gay? Is that all?” Harry asked, fighting not to smile.

“All? _All?_ That’s a pretty big _all_ , I’d say,” Lunga said with a sardonic not-quite-laugh. Then he looked at Harry quizzically. “Wait, it doesn’t bother you?”

Harry allowed himself a small smile then. “Oh, honey, I spotted you on day one.” His smile turned into a chuckle as Lunga’s mouth opened and closed a few times in a very credible impression of a fish on dry land.

“You… Wha-... _How?_ ” he finally managed.

“Call it my special talent,” Harry said with a smirk. The waves of relief he could sense rolling off the other man prompted him to add, “Besides, it takes one to know one.” 

He regretted it almost immediately - that was something he’d never told anyone, not even his mama, who knew every other damn thing about him. He’d just given this man everything he’d ever need to destroy him, should he feel so inclined.

“You _what?!_ ’ Lunga burst out. “Are you seriously telling me… you… fokken _hell_ , Harry _!_ ” He was gaping at Harry. “All these months, I’ve been terrified you’d find out what I am, that you’d hate me and never want to speak to me again, maybe break a few bones into the bargain and now you tell me _you’re the same?_ ”

Harry just shrugged self-consciously. “I guess, ja?”

“Ho-lee shit,” Lunga said, sinking back in his seat. “You are actually, genuinely perfect.”

“Hardly,” Harry mumbled, sure that he was blushing furiously at the compliment, curse his stupid unpigmented skin. He stood up to give himself something to do. “I’ll get you some blankets and a pillow. It’ll have to be the couch for now, don’t have a spare bed, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” He stumbled out of the room, tripping over his own feet out of sheer awkwardness.

He took a minute to get himself under control before returning with the bedding. “There you go,” he said, dropping the little pile on the couch. “Help yourself to… kitchen, bathroom. Whatever.” 

He turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. “Harry?” Lunga said. “Thanks. For all of this. You’re a good friend.”

Harry just gave him a tight little smile. “Sure. Sleep well, Lu.” Then he went to his own room and carefully closed the door, as if it could somehow help him contain the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him.

\---

### Footnotes

16 The Mamelodi Sundowns, a team from Pretoria.[return to text]

17 ANC youth league. Banned and operating underground at the time of this story.[return to text]

18 A shebeen is a place that sells liquor off-licence, usually in a private residence. They were very illegal in those days especially, since the sale of liquor to blacks was tightly controlled - essentially, only the local government was allowed to sell to them, and only in designated venues. Police would frequently raid shebeens, confiscating or even straight up pouring out the liquor they found (although, if you were lucky, they could be bribed with a bottle of brandy). Dube was known for its shebeens, some of which survive to this day - for example, [ Wandie’s Place ](http://www.wandiesplace.co.za/4?id=4&n=ourstory) (now legal and licenced, of course.)[return to text]

19 Bo 4 or borgata is township slang for the cops.[return to text]

20 Apparently green Sparletta Creme Soda is a South African thing? Anyway, it’s a popular hangover cure, popularly known as "groen ambulans" or green ambulance.[return to text]


	4. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunga and Mama finally meet. Harry gets into a scrape, Lunga helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of drama, a bit of fluff. Re-reading this makes me smile every time, I hope it will do the same for you.

It was strange, waking up to someone else in his house. Lunga was already up and dressed by the time Harry stumbled out of his bedroom to find the other man sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea as if trying to absorb every last bit of heat from it.

“Sleep okay?” he asked as he shuffled over to the kettle to get his morning tea. “Couch isn’t great, I know.”

“I’ve had worse,” Lunga shrugged. “And it was a damn sight better than sleeping out on the streets. I’ll start looking for a new place today.”

Oh, Harry didn’t like the thought of that at all, even though it was undoubtedly the best course of action.

“You can stay here,” he blurted out before he could help himself. “I mean, if you like. I have another room. We’d have to clean it out, and get a bed for you somewhere, but… well, at least you won’t have to worry about me kicking you out like that antie did.”

Lunga’s face shifted from surprise to gratitude as Harry spoke. “Thanks, man,” he said. “You really are the best.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Dammit, I gotta run or I’ll be late for work.” He downed the last of his tea and rinsed the mug, placing it on the draining board to dry. “See you tonight,” he said, giving Harry’s shoulder a little squeeze as he walked past on the way to the door.

Harry stayed sitting at the kitchen table until his tea got cold, his thoughts in turmoil. Partly he was berating himself for inviting Lunga to live with him (but what could he do? He liked to think he was a decent friend, even though he hadn’t had much practice at it), part of him was thrilled that they would be spending even more time together, and all of him was sure that this would be the death of him, sooner or later. He hadn’t grown any less attracted to Lunga in the months of their friendship - quite the opposite, in fact - and he wasn’t at all sure how to deal with it. Making a move was out of the question; it was something he wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on for even a moment. And yet, the thoughts still came - unbidden, unwelcome, shut down as soon as they surfaced, but maddeningly persistent. 

With a groan he resigned himself to an as-yet undetermined period of silent suffering, until Lunga found somewhere better to be and moved on. It was his own damn fault, and he would just have to learn to live with it.

\---

In the end, Lunga turned out to be a remarkably easy roommate to live with. It helped that they were already friends and enjoyed each other’s company, of course, but the younger man also pulled his weight when it came to the household chores and expenses.

He was hopeless in the kitchen, though. It didn’t take long for Harry to learn that the scrambled eggs he’d made as a hangover cure was literally the only thing he could cook; everything else ended up either burnt or inedible. They agreed that it would be best if Harry did the cooking, and Lunga stuck to washing the dishes.

To his surprise, Harry found that he rather liked cooking for someone beside himself, especially since Lunga was a very enthusiastic eater. Harry got in the habit of cooking a bit extra in the evenings and packing them the leftovers for lunch the next day, and smiled to himself when he noticed Lunga putting on a bit of weight around the middle, the way a well-loved husband should.

Ridiculous thought, that, but he didn’t even fight it anymore. He couldn’t stop himself falling in love with Lunga any more than he could stop the march of the seasons. It bloomed in his heart as surely and inexorably as the Jacarandas that lined the streets of the Northern Suburbs would turn purple come November, and to him it was a thing of far greater beauty. A secret beauty, to be sure, one reserved for him alone to enjoy, but no less wondrous for it.

\---

Lunga hadn’t been living with Harry very long before Mbali found out about his new roommate, thanks to her habit of dropping in unannounced. Not that Harry was intentionally keeping it a secret; he just hadn’t gotten around to telling them yet. 

Of course, his mama wanted to meet Lunga immediately, which had Harry panicking a little. What if Mama didn’t like Lunga, or vice versa? They made up two thirds of the most important people in his life, it would be a disaster if they didn’t get along. Worse yet, what if his mama somehow guessed at the truth of his feelings? That might be even worse.

But really, he should have known better. Mama Aida had a heart wider than the African sky, and Lunga was the most likeable person he’d ever met (although he might have been a bit biased there). In short, they got on like a house on fire, and within a few weeks she was treating Lunga like a second son. It was almost disconcerting how easily Lunga slipped into their family and became part of their everyday lives. And even though the ache of his unrequited love sat like a weight in his chest, Harry found himself happier than he could ever remember being.

So, of course, life had to go and dump a whole bucket of shit on him, reminding him just where his place in the social pecking order was. 

It was a Sunday afternoon, and they were walking along the road, on their way back from lunch with Mama and Mbali.

Harry didn’t pay much attention to the group of teenage boys on the street corner, even when they started muttering as he walked past; he’d been used to it for a very long time. It might have been the twentieth century, but superstitions about people with albinism still abounded. It was a large part of the reason why he’d learned to fight well from a young age. 

The boys didn’t stop at muttering, though. 

“Hey,  _ isishawa[21] _ ,” one of them yelled, “what do you think you’re doing?” 

Harry grit his teeth and kept walking, pretending not to hear. Not worth fighting about, he told himself. 

“Hey, are you deaf?” Another one of the boys shouted. “Or just bloody stupid?”

“Get your filthy ass off the streets,” a third piped up. “ _ Hamba uye esihogweni[22] _ , back to where you belong!”

They were almost at the corner where they would turn off, and that might have been that, but Harry felt a sudden pain blooming on his shoulder. “Eina, fok!” he turned around to see that one of the boys had thrown a stone, and was now smirking at him with an expression of pure contempt.

Next thing he knew, Lunga had overtaken him in a blur of black and righteous fury, and had picked the boy up by his shirt, pinning him to the wall.

“What the fuck did you just say?” he hissed between clenched teeth. “You fucking dare insult my friend, you detestable piece of shit?”

Well. That escalated quickly. Harry could do without this sort of drama in his life, he really could, so he laid a calming hand on his friend’s arm.

“C’mon, Lu,” he said as soothingly as he could. “I’m okay. They’re not worth it. Let’s just go.”

Harry could see Lunga fighting to get a grip on himself, and this time good sense won out. He dropped the now trembling boy on the ground.

“You’re fucking lucky he’s a better man than I am,” he spat at the kid, “or you would be mincemeat.” And with that he turned on his heel and set off down the street at such a pace that Harry had to jog to catch up with him.

They walked in silence the rest of the way, Harry lost in his own head and Lunga quietly fuming. 

“You should’ve let me teach them a lesson,” Lunga finally said when they were back home. 

“To what end?” Harry replied wearily. “It’s the way of the world, believe me. You beat them up, and a dozen more step up to take their place.”

“Still,” Lunga grumbled. Harry wasn’t sure why his friend was so upset; it seemed like a bit of an overreaction to him, but then again, maybe he was just used to it.

He shrugged off his jacket, hissing at the sting in his shoulder.

“Fok, Harry, you’re bleeding!” Lunga said, sounding a little panicked.

Harry inspected his jacket; sure enough, there was a small red stain, almost invisible against the dark brown fabric.

“Must’ve been a harder shot than I thought,” he murmured, trying to twist his head to see his own shoulder blade.

“We’d better get that cleaned up,” Lunga said, shooing him toward the bathroom. “Do you have some Dettol or something? Plasters?”

Harry got some mercurochrome and a box of plasters from the cupboard. “Mind giving me a hand?” he asked a bit awkwardly as he unbuttoned his shirt.

Lunga nodded stiffly and helped him ease the shirt off his shoulder, careful not to further damage the skin.

“Eish, you’re gonna have a lekker[23] bruise here,” he remarked. “Gimme,” he gestured to the mercurochrome.

Harry hissed as the antiseptic was dabbed onto the wound, causing Lunga to mumble an apology.

“Not your fault,” he managed. Lunga was careful, his large hands working oh so very gently, but broken skin was broken skin and there was no way it wouldn’t sting.

Harry sat quietly as Lunga finished cleaning and dressing the cut, trying to memorise the feel of the man’s fingers on his skin. Oh, he was terrible, but he would enjoy what little he could have.

“All done,” Lunga said softly, giving his shoulder a squeeze, careful to avoid the wound.

Without thinking, Harry brought his hand up and laid it on top of Lunga’s. “Thanks,” he said softly. “For patching me up, and for sticking up for me. No-one’s ever done that for me. Well, except Mama,” he added with a dry chuckle.

Lunga didn’t answer, and Harry was immediately afraid that he’d overstepped, gotten just a bit too handsy. He dropped his hand back down to his lap, still looking at the floor.

“Sometimes, I can’t help but think it’s right, what they call people like me.  _ Isishawa _ . It’s a curse being different like this, having your different-ness on display for all the world to see.” Harry sighed. He hated to wallow in self-pity, it didn’t help anyone, but felt so goddamn good to just have someone listen to him for once. “I mean, you’d think I’d be an outcast over the other thing, but no-one even bothers to get to know me well enough to find out. Might be a blessing, I suppose, but still. People look at me, see the  _ inkawu[24] _ , and they laugh or curse at me, and that’s it.” 

“That’s bullshit.” 

Harry only realised then that Lunga’s hand was still resting on his shoulder, because he moved around to kneel in front of Harry where he was still sitting on the toilet seat, bringing his other hand up to mirror its mate.

“Harry, you’re one of the best men I know. Hell, you saved my drunk ass from a kicking I probably deserved when you didn’t even know me. You gave me a place to live when I had nowhere to go, you welcomed me into your family. You’re the best damn friend I’ve ever had. And the fact that you look different? Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

Harry could feel an uncomfortable prickling behind his eyes, the unaccustomed praise rubbing at some raw part of him.

“You’re no  _ inkawu _ , my friend. If anything, you are Tsau, the white lion[25]. Strong, and fierce, and utterly beautiful.”

That’s what did it. Being told he was good, and beautiful - it broke him. He brought a hand up to cover his eyes, ashamed of the tears he could feel starting to spill over.

“Hey. C’mere.” Lunga pulled him into a hug, careful not to press on his injury. And what the hell was Harry supposed to do with that? He wanted to relax into the embrace, wanted to pull away before it was too late, wanted, oh, wanted so much to wrap his own arms around Lunga’s strong body and never, ever let go again.

Instead, he just remained frozen in place, trembling slightly.

“Shh, hey, it’s okay,” Lunga whispered, rubbing one hand on his back and… did he just press a kiss to the side of his head? There and gone before Harry even had a chance to savour it.

Harry pulled back to look at his friend, eyes wide. “Lu?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, pulling his arms back. “That was… sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Harry wondered at how hoarse his own voice sounded. “Please.”

Their eyes met; the moment stretched out between them, a subjective eternity of uncertainty and anticipation. Harry couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t so much as blink.

And then, a hand on his cheek, calloused and work-roughened, gentle as a mother cradling a newborn baby.

Foreheads carefully pressed together, noses almost brushing. 

Warm breath against his mouth.

Harry surprised himself by being the one to close the gap, pressing their mouths together the way he’d wanted to for so many months now.

Every alarm bell in his head went off when their lips met - and then they were silenced all at once, because Lunga was kissing him back, a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

And it was…

_ Fuck _ .

It was everything.

\---

###  Footnotes

21 Isishawa means ‘one who is cursed’. It is used as a derogatory term for people with albinism, implying that their condition is due to witchcraft or devilry. Not a nice thing to be called at all. I wish I could say that this sort of nonsense was a thing of the past, but alas, people are still people, and therefore assholes to anyone who may be considered different.[return to text]

22 _ Hamba uye esihogweni _ = go to hell.[return to text]

23 ‘Eish’ and ‘lekker’ are two quintessentially South Afican words that don’t really translate to English. Eish is a sort of general exclamation, suitable to just about any situation, and lekker can roughly be translated as ‘nice’.[return to text]

24 A friendly reminder that  _ inkawu _ menas ‘white baboon’[return to text]

25 Bear with me as I digress on the topic of white lions. Yes, they’re a real thing, unique to one small part of South Africa. They’re not albinos; it’s only their fur that is unpigmented, their eyes, paw pads and lips are still brown (true albinos have blue eyes and unpigmented pink skin everywhere. Like Harry.). Zulu folklore tells that some 400 years ago, a star fell to the earth in the area now known as the Timbavati game reserve, and shortly thereafter the lions of the area began giving birth to white cubs. These white lions are known as the Sons of the Sun God and are revered as sacred in the traditional beliefs of several tribes. The Khoisan call them Tsau! (the ! is a letter in Khoisan, denoting a click of the tongue), meaning  _ star lion _ . In the Shangaan tribe, their sangomas (shamans) are called by the title  _ Keeper of the White Lions _ .[return to text]


	5. Becoming an "us"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened after the kiss: mild panic, plenty of softness, and some interesting discussions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, somehow I miscounted the chapters... turns out there's 6. Good news is, there's one more chapter coming after this. Bad news, if you were hoping for some sexy times, you'll have to wait another chapter.

Harry was all but useless at work the next day, his mind full of Lunga. His smiling red-gold eyes, his gentle hands, his oh-so-soft lips…

His first impression had been right. Those lips were perfect for biting. Plump and smooth and sure as they pressed against his.

Every time he remembered, it sent a little thrill of electricity down his spine, and he couldn’t stop his mind drifting back. 

_ “Man, I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” Lunga said when he pulled away, a goofy smile on his face.  _

_ “That makes two of us,” Harry replied, certain he was looking just as starstruck. “Again?” _

_ He didn’t need to ask twice.  _

It was the first time he’d kissed a man. Not his first kiss - he’d kissed a few girls when he was younger, even tried having sex with one before deciding that nope, that was definitely not for him and he’d rather die a bachelor than date a woman for the sake of keeping up appearances. 

But kissing a man - kissing  _ this _ man, in particular - was something else altogether. He was sure he hadn’t stopped grinning like a fool since it happened. 

He’d had a moment of panic when he woke up, worried that things would be different or awkward in the clear light of day. There had been more kisses the previous evening, chaste and gentle and oh so careful, but very few words spoken. They’d eventually parted and left to their own beds like they did every night - earlier than usual, both somewhat tired out from the day’s drama. It had given Harry rather too much time to think, his thoughts swinging wildly between fantasies of what could be and fear that he’d just made a terrible mistake, that Lunga would turn tail and run, and spill his secret to the world to boot. Fear that he would be once again left alone, only this time knowing what he was missing. It was a long time before he fell asleep.

He’d awoken from a dream that was… well, definitely not family friendly - or legal in its subject matter, for that matter - and flipped right back into worrying that he’d messed up their friendship by wanting the wrong things. 

But it turned out he was worried for nothing. Like every morning, Lunga was already dressed and having tea when Harry emerged from his room. 

“Morning,” he said with a smile, and grabbed hold of Harry’s wrist as he walked past, pulling him down for a kiss. 

“Hmm, wasn’t a dream, then,” Harry mumbled with a smile. 

“Nope,” Lunga grinned back at him, darting in for another kiss. 

As Harry turned to get his own tea, Lunga got up and put his mug in the sink. 

“I’ve gotta run - the buses wait for no-one - but we’ll talk tonight, yeah?”

Talk? That sounded ominous. 

“Sure,” Harry managed in a rather strangled tone of voice. 

To his surprise, he was enveloped in a hug from behind, a soft kiss pressed to his cheek. 

“Keep yourself safe for me, Tsau,” Lunga murmured against his shoulder, and Harry smiled at the nickname, at the memory that came with it.  _ Strong and fierce and utterly beautiful. _

“You too, love,” he replied, then panicked a little because where the hell had that come from? Lunga just caught his lips in one last kiss - then another, and one last one for good luck. 

“Hmm, stop being so irresistible; if I don’t leave now, I’ll be so late…”

“Go!” Harry shooed him out of the door, lunchbox in hand and with a smile on his lips. They would talk tonight, and the last minute or so was enough to reassure Harry that it wouldn’t be anything bad. 

\---

“You wanted to talk?” Harry asked as they sat down for supper. He’d been greeted with a kiss and a murmured  _ ‘missed you’ _ , so he wasn’t exactly worried, but still… he’d rather get this conversation, whatever it was, over and done with. 

“Hmm, ja,” Lunga said around a mouthful of  _ morogo[26] _ . 

“So?”

Lunga swallowed his mouthful and set down his fork. “I just thought we should probably… make sure we’re on the same page. About, you know,” he gestured vaguely between them, “this. Us.”

“Okay. Um… what page would that be? Exactly?”

Lunga let out a chuckle. “I mean, I want to know what you want from us. If you even want there to be an  _ us _ ; if that’s something you’re willing to risk.”

It was a sobering reminder that pursuing any kind of relationship would carry risks to them both - not just the usual broken heart scenarios, but stigmatization, prejudice, even criminal prosecution. It wouldn’t be a smooth road by any means. 

And yet…

“I think,” Harry said, weighing his words carefully, “no, not think. I’m certain I want there to be an ‘us’.”

“Okay, good,” Lunga said with a smile. “I want that too. But secret like?”

“Yeah, of course. Not because…” Harry didn’t quite know how to say  _ you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I wish I didn’t have to hide it, I wish I could shout it from the rooftops! _ , but Lunga seemed to understand his meaning. 

“I know,” he said, reaching out a hand to wrap around Harry’s and offering him a reassuring smile. “Safety first, yeah? We’ll take some time to figure ourselves out, and then, later, we can think about telling whoever might need to know.”

Harry thought about this for a moment, then realised: “Fok, we’ll have to tell Mama, won’t we?”

“Well, ja, I guess,” Lunga said. “She’s bound to find out... Wait a minute. Harry, does your mom know you’re gay?”

“Um, no,” Harry admitted weakly. “It’s never come up.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“Well, does your family know about you?” Harry challenged.

“Yes, it’s… part of the reason I ended up in Joburg,” Lunga said sheepishly, a touch of sadness in his voice.

“How so?” Harry asked.

“Dad caught me with another boy when I was maybe 16. Didn’t take it too well,” Lunga said. “Beat the shit out of me first, then he wanted to send me to the sangoma[27] for some sort of… cure or something. I didn’t stick around to find out what that would entail.”

“Eish.”

“Ja.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the revelations settling between them.

“So your ma knows nothing?” Lunga eventually asked. “She’s never wondered why you don’t bring any girls home?”

“I assume she thought it’s because I’m…” Harry gestured vaguely at his face, the  _ ‘who would want to date this?’ _ unspoken, yet clear. 

“Tsau, no,” Lunga said, his face going soft. The nickname sent a thrill down Harry’s spine.  _ Beautiful, _ he’d said.  _ Utterly beautiful _ . It wasn’t true, but still…

And then Lunga was scooting his chair over so that they were side by side, taking Harry’s face in gentle hands and placing soft kisses on his forehead, his nose, his cheeks.

“You are perfect, my white lion,” he whispered, before finally claiming Harry’s mouth with his own.

Their food was cold by the time they got back to it.

\---

Things were different after that. Not so much on the outside - an interested observer may have noted that Harry seemed a little happier, a bit less closed off than usual, but other than that nothing had changed. His days followed the same familiar routine of work, visits with Mama and Mbali, and weekend outings to soccer games or parks or whatever took their fancy on a given day.

But inside the four walls of his house - their house, he thought with a smile - everything had changed. In between the usual activities of meals and housekeeping, reading and radio shows, there were wonderful, unfamiliar touches - hands intertwined as they sat on the couch, feet brushing under the table as they ate supper together, soft kisses for hellos and goodbyes and for no other reason than that they wanted to and they could. 

And sometimes those kisses grew hot and hungry, and there seemed to be a desperate starving thing clawing its way out of Harry’s stomach, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it - but it was  _ glorious, _ to want and to know you were wanted in return.

Unfortunately, it also seemed to cloud his brain to the point where he forgot about the simplest things. Things like bottling the back door - which is how Mbali walked into the kitchen one day to find them tonsils-deep in each other halfway through washing the dishes.

They didn’t even notice her coming in, lost as they were in each other, and only her strangled  _ “What the fuck?” _ pulled them back to reality. Harry briefly considered chiding her for her language - where did an eleven-year-old girl learn such words, anyway? - but then he reconsidered, given what she’d just walked in on.

“Sisi[28]. Um. Hi,” he managed, as Lunga wiped the back of his hand across his mouth self-consciously.

“Seriously, Harry?” she asked, standing with her hands on her hips and head cocked to one side in a posture so reminiscent of his mama about to deliver a scolding that it made his heart stutter anxiously. 

“Um. I can explain?” he said, not really sure how on earth he would go about doing that.

“Explain what?” she asked. “Why you’re kissing your best friend like you’re the final scene in some sort of romantic movie? That’s so gross.”

“Mbali, please,” he said, pleaded. “Don’t make this more difficult than it is.” He sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and gestured for her to do the same. Lunga remained at the sink, leaning against the counter and watching the exchange silently.

“The truth is… a romantic movie is pretty much exactly what it’s like. Me and Lu, we’re in love.” It felt so strange to say it, so unreal, and he couldn’t help a small smile.

“But… you’re both boys?” she asked, her brow wrinkling in confusion.

“Yes. Well. That’s how it is,” Harry said, not quite sure how to explain the concept of homosexuality to his little sister. He decided to give it a try anyway. “I’ve always liked boys better than girls, and so has Lu. In fact, I don’t like girls at all. Not for kissing and such.”

Mbali frowned to herself, clearly processing this information.

“So you would… like… what, get married? Have kids?”

Harry laughed a humourless laugh at that. “No, sisi, that’s not going to happen. It’s not allowed for boys to marry other boys.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

“In fact,” Harry went on, suddenly realising that he had to explain one more thing to his little sister. “What we’re doing, what we are… it’s against the law.”

“What? Why?” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know, baby girl. Because people are scared of anything that’s different, I suspect.”

“Sounds stupid to me,” she mumbled.

“Ja, well. The truth is, if the police found out, we could go to jail for a long time. So listen to me, sisi: you can’t tell anyone about this. No-one can know that we’re anything more than best friends who share a house.”

“Not even mama?” she asked, looking crestfallen. Harry knew that Mbali didn’t keep secrets from their mama - with the exception of this one thing, he never had either.

“Not even mama,” he said. “Look, I’ll tell her, but I need to do it myself, okay?”

“Okay,” she conceded. “But do it soon. Because she’s going to ask me how you guys are, and you know I’m a rubbish liar.”

“So tell her we’re doing well,” Harry suggested. “That’s the truth. Just don’t mention too much of the why.”

“Okay,” she grinned. “I’ve gotta go now. Oh, and Lu,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height (such as it was) fixing the other man with a glare. “I’m glad you’re making my brother happy. If you ever make him unhappy, I’ll poison your food.”

Lunga chuckled. “Noted, little flower[29],” he said, and gave her a hug. “I’ll take the best care of your brother, I promise.”

Harry waved her off as she left, then came back inside, carefully bolting the door this time.

“Well. That went better than expected,” he remarked.

“Indeed,” Lunga agreed. “One down, one to go.”

Harry groaned. “Guess I’ll be visiting mama soon, won’t I?”

“That’s up to you.” he reached out for Harry, pulling him back into his arms. “Now, where were we?” 

\---

Harry was never one to put off the inevitable, so he decided to stop off at Mama’s house on the way back from work the next day. 

That… had been one of the more awkward conversations of his life. 

“But why, my boy?” Mama asked. “What made you become this way? Do we need to take you to a doctor? Or a priest?”

“No, mama,” he tried to explain. “I’ve always been this way, as long as I can remember. I’ve never been in love with a woman, not even once. It’s always been men for me.”

“But… Why have you never said anything? Why keep a secret from me?” Harry felt a bit sorry for her; she was clearly having her world rattled a bit. 

“Mama, you know it’s not allowed, for two men to be together. I wasn’t going to risk getting in trouble with the law.”

“You mean more trouble than you’re usually in,” she replied with a teasing smile. 

“Exactly,” he grinned back at her, thinking how lucky he was to have her. For all her complaints about the inevitable brushes with the police his political activities brought about, mama had never expected him to stop fighting for what he believed in. “I really didn’t want to give them any more reasons to arrest me. especially since I wasn’t planning to do anything about my… attractions. It would just be my own dirty little secret.”

“Okay,” mama answered, pensive, “but what I don’t understand is, why are you telling me this now? Has something changed?”

“It has.” Harry took a deep breath. That was it, then. “It’s Lu, mama. He’s the same as me, and we’ve… sort of… fallen in love.”

Mama sat in silence for a while, absorbing this news. Harry fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, waiting nervously for her to say something. 

“So…” she started at last “That means… no grandchildren?”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh at this. “Not from me, Mama. Although, that was never gonna happen anyway. You’ll have to speak to Mbali if you want grandkids.”

As if she’d been summoned by the speaking of her name, his sister barreled into the kitchen, back from wherever she and her friends spent their afternoons. 

“Harry!” she squealed in joy, hurrying over to hug him. “Where’s Lu?”

“On his way home, I imagine. I just stopped by on my way from work, to talk to Mama.”

“Oh, did you-” 

His sister really was annoyingly perceptive sometimes. “Yes, Sisi, I told her about us. You don’t have to keep it a secret from Mama anymore.”

“Hau!” Mama swatted him with a tea towel. “You mean you told your sister before you told me?!”

“No, Mama,” Harry laughed. “She found out by accident, because she doesn’t understand how to knock on a door.” He gave his sister a meaningful glare. She stuck out her tongue at him, and he flicked it. 

“Ew, gross!” she protested. 

“Serves you right,” he countered.

“Eish, Harry, you’re more of a child than Mbali sometimes,” Mama admonished, but she was smiling. “Now off you go, unless you’re planning on staying for dinner; I have to finish the cooking. I expect both you boys for lunch on Sunday, ne.”

“Yebo[30], mama,” Harry replied, and kissed her on the cheek. “See you then. Sala kahle.”

“Hamba Kahle, my boy, Stay safe.”

  
  


###  Footnotes

26 Morogo is a collective name for a variety of edible wild greens (most commonly amaranth and cowpea). It’s often cooked with potato and onion, sometimes also tomatoes and carrots. Very typical traditional South African food, especially since it grows wild so it’s basically free food.[return to text]

27 A sangoma is a traditional healer, sort of a combination medicine man and shaman.[return to text]

28 Sisi - technically short for sister (from the Afrikaans word sussie, perhaps?) but used to address younger females generally. Pronounced like cc.[return to text]

29 Mbali means flower[return to text]

30 Yebo = yes in Zulu.[return to text]


	6. Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some soft, fluffy, tender loving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally just some very soft smut. As a treat.

“You’re later than usual,” Lu remarked when he got home. 

“Sorry, love,” Harry said, greeting him with a kiss. “I stopped at Mama’s.”

“Oh. Did you tell her?”

“I did,” Harry confirmed. 

“And?”

“She seems okay with it,” Harry said, still smiling with the relief of it. “A little confused perhaps, but not angry or anything. In fact, she said she’s expecting both of us for lunch on Sunday.”

Lu chuckled. “See, I told you she’d be fine. That mama of yours has more love than she knows what to do with.”

“Hmm, she’s not the only one who has an excess of love,” Harry said, pulling Lu in for another kiss. Like always, it lit something warm and happy in his chest. Would he ever get tired of this? He hoped not. 

-

They were talking about it again that night as they were lying in bed. 

Sleeping together - as in sharing a bed - had happened not long after their first kiss, when they both decided they didn’t want to split up when they said goodnight. Every night since then, Harry had fallen asleep with a warm body next to him, and woken up to the same. It got a bit awkward sometimes, the waking up together part, with bodies being what they were. Certain parts of his anatomy tended to react in predictable, if embarrassing, ways to the nearness of such an incredibly desirable man. He couldn’t help but notice that Lu was similarly affected (okay, so maybe he made a point of noticing), but so far neither of them had remarked on it.

In short, they hadn’t slept together in any sense other than the literal, even though they clearly both wanted more. There had been a lot of heavy kissing, lips and tongues exploring each other’s mouths and necks and earlobes; hands drifting across torsos, hips grinding and fingers skating along waistbands and tentatively touching through their clothes, but nothing beyond that. 

If Harry had to be honest, he was nervous as hell over it. Even though he was the older of them, he knew he was the less experienced; he’d never so much as kissed another man before Lu. So while he burned with desire, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do about it, how to go about satiating that raging hunger that flared under his skin with every touch and every kiss. He touched himself when it got to be too much, gasping in the shower to the memory of those lips, those hands, but it wasn’t enough. He had a feeling it never could be. 

“You okay?” Lu asked. They were lying on their sides, facing each other, fingers tangled together on the bed between them. “You look a little… dazed, or something.”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a small smile. “Just feels sorta weird, Mama knowing about us.”

Lunga’s eyebrows pinched together in a slight frown. “Is that a problem?” he asked. 

“No, no, not at all,” Harry rushed to reassure him. “Quite the opposite. It’s just… a little surreal, you know. I’ve never brought a lover home. Never had a lover to bring home. Kinda makes it feel more… official, I guess.” 

“I think I know what you mean,” Lunga chuckled. “And I rather like it, the idea of being official with you.” Dear God, he looked so beautiful, so soft and content, that Harry just had to kiss him. 

The kiss quickly took a turn into something more fervid. Not for the first time, Harry both blessed and cursed Lu’s habit of sleeping without a shirt, as he ran the fingers of his free hand along the toned muscles of the other man’s back, tracing the curve of his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine, all the way down to the two dimples that sat just above the waistband of his pyjama pants. Lunga reciprocated by working his hands under Harry’s t-shirt and skimming his fingertips over Harry’s ribs, leaving fire in their wake. 

Harry sat up abruptly and pulled his t-shirt over his head. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” Lunga smiled up at him from where he was lying on the pillows.

“Shhh,” Harry said, lying back down beside him. “Just kiss me.”

“With pleasure,” Lunga smiled before leaning back in. 

After a while he shifted and pulled Harry to lie on top of him, so that he had both hands free to explore every inch of Harry’s torso. Harry hummed in pleasure and arched into the touch, inadvertently pressing their pelvises together. The sudden friction pulled a gasp from both of them. 

_God_ , Harry wanted. He _wanted_. And he could tell, very clearly, that Lu wanted it too. 

“Lu,” he gasped between kisses. “Love- oh! I want-. Can we-?”

“What do you want, ‘sthandwa?[31]” Lu murmured against his neck where he was trailing kisses.

“I want _more_ ,” Harry replied, knowing he was being vague but feeling too embarrassed to say anything specific. Instead, he let his hands trail down Lunga’s sides and slipped his fingers just inside the waistband of his pants. “I -ngg, _Lu!_ , I want _you_.”

Without warning, Lu flipped them over so that he was lying on top of Harry, supporting himself on his knees and elbows. “I’m yours, any way you want me,” he purred. “Do you… can I touch you?”

“Please,” Harry breathed.

“Can I use my mouth on you?” Lu trailed a gentle line with his fingertips, showing exactly _where_ he intended to put his mouth.

“ _God_ , yes,” Harry managed, his hips bucking up instinctively at both the touch and the thought.

“Hmm, lovely,” Lu murmured.

“Really?” Harry managed. “You don’t find it… gross, or something?”

Lu responded with a chuckle. “Oh, you sweet thing. If you only knew how many times I’ve imagined it. I want you so, so much…”

“Have me, then,” Harry said.

Lunga regarded him for a moment, mouth slightly open and eyes dark with lust, and then he dove in for a bruising kiss.

Soon his lips left Harry’s mouth, trailing down his jaw, his neck, his chest. Harry moaned with pleasure at every new sensation, his hands skittering along Lu’s back, nails occasionally digging in and probably leaving marks. When Lu’s tongue teased his nipple, he keened and _oh!_ -yep, definitely left a mark that time.

“I’m gonna look like I’ve been mauled by a lion,” Lu chuckled from somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

“Sorry,” Harry said with an embarrassed smile. “You make me forget myself.”

“Don’t be; you’re _my_ lion,” Lu retorted, before returning to his slow worship of Harry’s body.

When his kisses reached the fabric of Harry’s pyjama pants, he paused, looking up at him. “You sure?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Harry nodded. He had never been more sure of anything in his life. He was rewarded with a dazzling smile, the kind Lunga wore whenever he got something he really, really wanted. It made Harry’s head spin a little, to know he was that thing.

What followed after shattered Harry to pieces and then put him back together in a whole new way. Lunga was gentle, so gentle, kissing and licking and sucking until Harry could hardly remember his name. He was teetering on the precipice for what felt like a lifetime, aching with need, half-crazed with pleasure.

What finally tipped him over was a single spit-slick finger carefully stroking in between his cheeks. No penetration, no breach - just a gentle press, and he was undone. 

Well. 

_Wow_. 

There was something to add to his ‘to try’ list.

“Come here, you,” he panted once he could breathe again, yanking Lu up weakly by his shoulders and pulling him straight into a kiss. He could taste himself on Lu’s mouth, and it was strange - not exactly unpleasant, but certainly unfamiliar. The mere thought of how that taste got into Lu’s mouth in the first place was enough to make him dizzy.

His hand found it’s own way down to Lunga’s crotch, finding him hard and more than a little messy. He wrapped his fingers around the firm, hot flesh, gathering and spreading the slick wetness, and started with a slow rhythm, revelling in every moan and hiss he pulled from his lover. _His lover!_ What a thrilling thought that was! 

This, at least, he knew how to do - he’d practiced on himself often enough - and it wasn’t long before Lunga also climaxed, new-yet-familiar warmth spilling onto his hand.

“Wow,” Lunga smiled at him dazedly. “That was…”

“I know,” Harry replied.

They grabbed Harry’s discarded t-shirt to do some perfunctory cleaning, and then they just lay there for a while, trading lazy kisses and soft caresses until tiredness began to overtake them. They turned off the light and settled in to sleep, Lunga on his back and Harry curled up on his side next to him, head resting on Lu’s shoulder and an arm and leg flung over him possessively.

“Tonight was amazing,” Harry murmured as they were drifting off to sleep.

“It was,” Lu agreed. “And the best part is, there can be as many more nights as we like.”

“You know, you were my first,” Harry mused. “Never even thought I’d have a first.”

“And was it worth the wait?” Lu teased.

“A hundred times over,” Harry said, planting a soft kiss on Lu’s shoulder.

“And you, my Tsau, you were my best,” Lunga murmured into his hair. “A hundred times over.”

\---

Harry awoke later that same night to darkness, and noise, and stifling heat. It was raining outside, a comforting, droning sort of noise on the corrugated metal roof, and Lunga was wrapped around him in a manner reminiscent of a particularly affectionate octopus. That explained the heat, at least.

Harry shuffled around to glance at the alarm clock on his bedside table, and the movement caused Lu to stir and wrap his arms even more securely around Harry. Harry smiled to himself as he remembered the previous night. _God_ , he adored this man.

The clock informed him that it was just after one AM. Plenty of time left to sleep, then. He yanked the covers down to his waist and snuggled down into his pillow, turning his head to the side to press a kiss to whatever bit of skin he could reach.

“Love you, Lu,” he murmured, smiling and aching with the depth of it. “Love you so much.”

“Mm, L’v y’ too,” Lu mumbled sleepily, nuzzling at Harry and squeezing him tight. “Sleep.”

So Harry did, knowing that whatever else happened in the future, he was exactly where he wanted to be. He wouldn’t be scared anymore, not of this; they had each other, and that was enough. They would be okay, as long as they were together.

### Footnotes

_31 Isithandwa (or sthandwa) _ is a Zulu endearment, similar to _my love_ or _darling_ .[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we reach the end of this tale. I hope you enjoyed reading about these guys as much as I enjoyed writing about them.
> 
> Sadly, this is the last already-written thing I have on my computer, so it may be a week or three until you hear from me again, depending on when the inspiration strikes.
> 
> Stay safe, my dears, and take care of yourselves. xx


End file.
